Part I

The standard Wolfram & Hart per diem of eighty-five dollars a day did not buy much in the LA underground, and an undercover operative could not maintain a low profile if he also had to ask for receipts. Spike was therefore in the unpleasant position of either hoping for luck, or switching to domestic beer. Neither luck nor Bud Lite had ever treated Spike well.

The regular dice game run by Zhirathu demons in the backroom of Joey's Pool Hall had been a bust. One vampire at the Pit Bull had heard of Greenway, but had no idea where he had gone. The Peppermint Stick was a good place to get a line on drugs or prostitution, but according to Sunshine, the strip club made its protection money payments directly to the LAPD.

But she had heard of a new bar that was demon-friendly. The Smoke Room, once a basement jazz club, had changed hands over the past year, and now had become a demon haunt. Many of the former patrons of Caritas, who now lacked a sanctuary, had put the word out on the street that, while the occasional brawl would be tolerated, turf wars were off limits at the Smoke Room.

Spike descended the stone steps into the bar, and noted that it was aptly named. The Smoke Room was apparently a haven from California's indoor clean air regulations as well as demon violence. A grey haze saturated the air, and wisps of smoke hovered under the pool table lamp. Demons freely moved about the bar, circling the room, sitting at the bar, and leaning against the concrete walls.

The bartender stood with his back turned, pouring a draft beer. Spike approached the bar, then called out:

"Newcastle, if you have it. Becks if you don't."

"We got Becks," the bartender called over his shoulder, as he turned to face Spike. "Newcastle's not one of the...Spike?"

"Willy?"

"Spike!" Willy repeated, quickly sliding a beer across the bar to a patron. "While I'll be a monkey's uncle! Good ta see ya. Always great to see an old regular."

"You left Sunnydale?" Spike asked.

"Good thing, too," Willy said. "I got wind of some big bad comin' in that had the locals in a tizzie, and I hightailed it. Six months later, BAM! It's all over the news that Sunnydale got swallowed up by a sink hole or fault line or something. I knew keepin' my ear to the ground would pay off someday."

"Yeah," Spike said, his eyes narrowing. "You always did have the good word."

"Anyways," Willy continued. "I was ready to take off. Got to where I couldn't keep any regulars, what with the Slayer prancing in twice a month and makin' waves. This is a better town for demon bars anyhow. You remember how I always had to stock all that goats' urine and rabbit entrails and whatnot? Not here. This is LA. Even the demons eat sushi. Hey, how about a California roll? On me, for old time's sake."

"Actually," Spike said, pulling a cigarette from his coat pocket. "I was more in the mood for one of your old products."

"Blood?" Willy asked.

"Information," Spike replied.

"Now, Spike," Willy said. "I'm outta that racket. I don't know nothin', I don't wanna know nothin'."

"Heard that tune before, mate."

"I mean it," Willy argued.

"We need to do this the hard way?" Spike asked, lighting his cigarette.

"Yeah, right," Willy said, smirking. "Look, Spike, you might have the Los Angelinos fooled, but this is Willy you're talking to. We both know that I ain't got nothin' to worry about from you. I ain't been away so long that I've forgotten about your little 'disability.' So why don't you...OW!"

Willy grasped his nose in both hands, his face exploding in pain from Spike's punch.

"How'd you do that?" Willy whined.

"You left town a bit too early for your own good, mate," Spike replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke in Willy's direction.

"Hey, Willy," a tall, horned demon said, walking up to the bar and scowling at Spike. "This guy causing trouble?"

"It's fine," Willy said, massaging the bridge of his nose. "No trouble."

The demon cast a final glare at Spike, then turned and went back to the pool table.

"The name's Greenway," Spike told Willy. "Human. Into the protection rackets."

"I don't know anything!"

"Don't hand me that," Spike said. "You always know something."

"I didn't know about you," Willy shot back. "I didn't know you were in LA. I didn't know you could hit people. It ain't like you to keep a low profile. You've probably been makin' a name for yourself ever since you got here. Would I be pissing you off if I was still connected?"

"Right," Spike sighed, slumping into a barstool.

"Hey, no hard feelings," Willy said. "Just to prove it, how about that roll? How do you like your sushi?"

"Deep fried," Spike replied. "With salt, vinegar, and chips on the side."

"I'll see what I can whip up," Willy said, turning and walking through the swinging door to the kitchen.

Spike took a drag off his cigarette, and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. He'd hoped that Willy would have something useful. As it stood, he was no closer to finding Greenway than he'd been that morning. And Willy had forgotten his beer.

"I'd avoid the sushi," a voice called from behind Spike. "The shrimp poppers are okay."

Spike turned back, and cried out:

"Clem?"

"In the flesh!" Clem replied, opening his arms and grinning.

"Damn!" Spike exclaimed, slapping Clem's shoulder. "The gang's all here."

"Yeah," Clem said. "Lots of us came to LA after the whole Sunnydale thing. When Willy opened up this place, most of the old crowd started hanging out."

"Glad you got out, mate," Spike said. "Buffy mentioned you'd hightailed it."

"I was a little worried about you," Clem said. "I mean, I heard that a lot of the Slayer's pals didn't make it."

"I didn't make it," Spike said. "I bought it."

"Oh," Clem said, squinting. He leaned in closer, then gently poked a pointed finger on Spike's chest.

"Quite solid," Spike assured him. "Well, lately, anyway. So how about you? Keeping out of trouble?"

"Trying to," Clem sighed. "There's not a lot of honest work in this town. The dock's are all union, and way too busy for demons to blend in. I've been putting in a couple of nights a week as a bouncer at Mickey Quinn's."

"A little rough and tumble for you, isn't it?"

Clem shrugged, and his eyes fell. "It's a living. I mean, I've had to do a few things that...well, I'm trying to save enough to get to Cleveland."

"Hop a boxcar," Spike said. "It can't cost that much to throw a couple cans of beans in a sack and hit the rails."

"It's not getting there that's the problem," Clem replied. "I've got a cousin there who runs a mail-order catalog out of his basement. He wants to expand. You know, get a warehouse, start up an internet site, that sort of thing. He said I could get in, but I'd have to buy his half of the business. He wants ten thousand dollars. I don't have anything like that kind of money, but if I save up, I figure I could at least...."

"We all got money problems," a demon said, walking behind Clem and slapping a blue scaled hand on his shoulder.

Clem shuddered, then turned back and said:

"Uh, Dralkor. Um, I was just on my way to...."

"To what?" Dralkor hissed through his razored fangs. "To come by and explain why Mr. Tanga doesn't have his money from Danny the Tarddeth yet?"

"I-I-I saw him," Clem stammered. "He said he'll have it in a couple of days. End of the week at the latest."

"That ain't how it works," Dralkor said. "Mr. Tanga hires you to collect, it's because 'by-the-end-of-the-week' ain't good enough. Mr. Tanga ain't got his money, and Danny don't have his arm broken. Does that seem right to you?"

Clem swallowed, and started to reply, but was interrupted by Spike, who said:

"Clem, how much did this cretin pay you?"

"A hundred," Clem admitted.

"You got it?"

"Most of it," Clem said, reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out a wad of bills.

Spike took the money, counted it, then reached into his own pocket and added two twenty dollar bills.

"Here," Spike said, shoving the money into Dralkor's coat pocket. "He quits. Go to your boss and tell him to find another muscle man."

"That ain't how it works either," Dralkor growled. "If I was you, I'd keep outta trouble."

"If you were me," Spike said, "you'd have better breath."

Dralkor snarled, then slashed at Spike with a taloned claw. Spike stepped out of reach, then lunged forward, wrestling Dralkor onto the pool table.

"Jesus, Spike!" Willy cried. "Take it outside!"

"Right," Spike answered, lifting Dralkor from the table and hurling him against the back wall. "Outside's that way, isn't it?"

Dralkor rose to his feet, grasping a sore shoulder with one hand, his eyes fixed on Spike. With his free hand he grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it against the edge of the bar. He moved toward Spike, but found that three demons blocked his path.

"Hold it!" the first demon ordered. "This ain't the place. Ain't that right, Willy?"

"Those are the rules," Willy agreed.

"No garbage in here," the demon continued. "Here, we drink, we shoot pool, we chase tail, but we don't put up with no garbage. Take a hike."

Dralkor glanced around the room, and saw that every demon in the bar was staring at him, ready to strike. He set his jaw, then laid the broken bottle on the bar and shouted:

"This ain't over, Clem!"

"Yes, it is," Spike interjected. "You tell your boss that he's got his money back, and that's that. Clem here works for Wolfram & Hart now, and it's an exclusive contract."

"Him?" Dralkor gasped. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm not laughing, mate," Spike replied. "If your boss is anybody who's anybody, he'll know who to ask. Now sod off."

Dralkor cast a final sneer at Clem, then stormed across the bar and up the stairs.

As the demons went back to socializing, Spike walked over to Clem and took a seat at the bar.

"Geez, that was close," Clem said.

"What the bloody hell's the matter with you?" Spike asked. "Gettin' mixed up with that sort. You know you were never cut out for the rough stuff. That's the sort you're falling in with, without me to look after you?"

"I told you, I needed the money. I'm not proud of it. There's just not a lot for me to do here. I only did it one other time, and that guy just coughed up the cash when he saw how big I was."

"You'd think you'd know better than to go looking for trouble."

"I didn't," Clem said. "I tried to get work at one of the warehouses, but it's tough when you're a demon. Word got out that there was a big demon looking for work, and out of nowhere I had all kinds of tough guys offering me money to go around and be scary. You know, stick my chest out, do the squiggly-face thing."

"Well, from now, keep your nose clean. And un-squiggly."

"Sorry," Clem sighed, taking a seat on the barstool next to Spike. "I'm just running out of options. They're probably going to fire me from Mickey Quinn's. The squiggly-faced thing doesn't scare anybody at that sort of place. I could probably get another bouncer job. It's easy when you look like I do. But once anybody gets to know me, they find out I'm not a tough guy, and that's it."

"Wait a minute," Spike said. "Did you say that you were getting offers to do collections for the gangster types?"

"Yeah, you know," Clem said. "Demon pimps, loan sharks...."

"Protection money?"

"I suppose."

"Ever hear of a bugger named Greenway?"

"Not specifically," Clem answered. "But there are a lot of guys in LA who are into that racket."

"But not so many big fellas who can do their dirty work?"

"Not a lot, no."

"Listen, Mate," Spike said. "That bar, do they pay you eight-five dollars a day?"

"Ha! Not nearly."

"Clem, my boy," Spike said. "I think we just found you a new gig."

TBC